


three years and ten minutes

by pbanjali



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slow Build, grilled cheese sandwiches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pbanjali/pseuds/pbanjali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it takes years for it to happen, or maybe 10 minutes, and grantaire is sometimes infuriating, often impossible, and always surprising. </p><p>or, the one where grantaire makes a grilled cheese sandwich and enjolras falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three years and ten minutes

**Author's Note:**

> this started off as a 1000-word drabble for the "sunday morning by maroon 5" prompt during a writing challenge and then transformed into a rushed slow build im sorry.
> 
> ty to [tori](http://mellowblueness.tumblr.com) for being the best honorary member of the e/R fandom.

They’ve been friends for three months when Enjolras realizes it.

One Sunday, Enjolras is sitting on the couch in his apartment reading the paper and Grantaire is sitting on the floor in front of him, sketchbook on the coffee table and back warm against Enjolras’ legs. Grantaire puts down his pencil and rests his head against Enjolras’ knee so he can look up at him and says “I’m making lunch, do you want anything?” and Enjolras thinks _you_ and then _wait, wha_ _t_?

His hand stills where it was playing with Grantaire’s curls.

Grantaire keeps looking at him patiently.

“Grilled cheese, then,” Grantaire decides with a smile, when Enjolras has been silent for too long, and Enjolras wonders at what point he fell in love.

//

They’ve been friends for three months when it happens, but they’ve known each other for years.

They met for the first time at the front of a lecture hall.

Enjolras was staying after class, asking the professor if he’d consider being a faculty advisor for Les Amis. The hall was starting to fill up again with students for the next class, and Enjolras was facing the door, so he saw the student who walked in halfway through Enjolras’ pitch and scoffed.

Enjolras didn’t stop talking; looked back at Professor Lamarque and told her when and where the first meeting is going to be and thanked her when she said to email her with more details; forgot the skeptic as soon as he broke eye contact with him.

He was surprised, therefore, to see the student at their first meeting, albeit ten minutes late. He was more surprised to find that he remembered him. He gave his introductory speech, thanked the 20 or so students who’d shown up, and opened the floor to questions.

“Yeah,” the student said, not bothering to wait to be called on, and Enjolras’ eyes snapped to his. “Does Bernini know that you’ve come to life, Apollo?”

//

“American or muenster,” Grantaire calls from the kitchen. Enjolras has no clue what the difference between the two is. “Who am I kidding,” Grantaire continues, “you have no clue what muenster even is, do you?”

//

Enjolras had watched Grantaire infiltrate his core group of friends. He bonded with Courfeyrac over how red Enjolras had gotten over his unsolicited comment, and with Joly and Bossuet over terrible puns and too much alcohol. He showed up at Bahorel and Feuilly’s apartment-warming beer bash, babysat Gavroche for Eponine when she went to protests, and drew interpretations of Jehan’s poems for his birthday. He teased Marius when he first met Cosette, and then spent hours helping him find her again; and without fail, he came to every meeting after that first one.

He always sat in the back, a pencil in hand or a flask or, sometimes, both, and was quiet until he wasn’t. Waited until Enjolras reached his crescendo and then cut him off at the knees, usually with a lewd comment, but often with sharp logic and a sharper wit.

Six months in, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s shoulder as they left the room and asked, “why do you even come to these meetings if you don’t believe in what we do?”

Grantaire just smiled, lopsided and slightly twisted, and then shrugged off his hand and left.

Enjolras realized this might be the first time he and Grantaire had ever been alone in a room.

//

Grantaire is singing in the kitchen, a drinking song that Enjolras remembers from Combeferre’s birthday party last week.

Enjolras is smiling at the memory when his eyes catch on Grantaire’s sketchbook. It’s open to a half-finished drawing of Jehan weaving flowers into his braid, across from a page full of hands in various positions, and a tiny cartoon of Enjolras himself sketched into the corner, looking particularly annoyed.

Grantaire hits a high note and his voice cracks and Enjolras smiles.

//

A year after the first meeting, Enjolras started to notice the way Grantaire looked at him.

The man had never been silent about Enjolras’ beauty, but Enjolras isn’t oblivious; this was more than physical attraction. He watched Grantaire’s eyes catch on his hands, watched the man’s shoulders tense when Enjolras walked too close. He’d listened to self-deprecating jokes, kept track of Grantaire avoiding being alone with him, seen sketches of himself drawn with too much care and hidden with too much haste. He’d shrugged off one-too-many comments comparing him to the gods.

He’d allowed himself to consider it, while Grantaire was off on one of his rants; swept his gaze over Grantaire’s twice-broken nose and furious hair, his bright blue eyes and the barely-visible scar under his left one, his calloused and talented hands, the constant sarcastic twist to his lips and was surprised at the coil of heat deep in his stomach.

The heat transforms into a revolutionary fervor when those lips open and say, “Man is evil; man is deformed.”

//

“So,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras looks up from the sketchbook. He’s leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, “did you hear? Marius is finally popping the question.”

“Really?” Enjolras asks, “because I’m pretty sure this is the fourth time this month that he’s said that.”

Grantaire laughs and turns to go back to the sandwiches.

“Well,” he says, “good thing Cosette’s already planning to do it tonight.”

//

“You know,” Courfeyrac said to Enjolras, “you could stand to be nicer to him. You talk to him like you aren’t friends.”

They were celebrating the two-year anniversary of their group, which had grown from a club to a society to the main chapter of a larger organization. Enjolras was one of three designated drivers, sipping at a soda at the bar while watching his friends on the dance floor. He considered playing dumb, but could still feel a pang of guilt from watching Grantaire lick his wounds after their argument half an hour earlier. He was surprised to feel a pang of something else watching Grantaire lick a shot from a giggling Jehan’s neck.

“We aren’t friends,” Enjolras said, and that was harsher than he intended, so he followed it up with, “we’re close to friends, but any more would be cruel.”

Courfeyrac stayed silent for a moment. They watched Eponine pull Grantaire onto the dance floor, where he waltzed with her to dubstep.

“This isn’t any less cruel,” Courfeyrac said, “not to him.” Enjolras finished his drink and put it down on the counter.

“I don’t know how to be around him,” he admitted, and Courfeyrac softened, a hand on Enjolras shoulder.

“Maybe,” he’d said, “just _be around him_.”

//

Enjolras gets bored of sitting on the couch and wanders into the kitchen, where Grantaire is throwing butter into the pan.

“Ah, Apollo descends to mingle with the masses,” Grantaire jokes and Enjolras rolls his eyes and pulls himself up to sit on the counter.

This is not a unique scene; it’s common knowledge that Enjolras, if left to his own devices, would order take-out for every meal rather than invest the time to learn how to cook, and so Grantaire refuses to leave him to his own devices. Enjolras watches him now, the curved line of his back and the comfort with which he navigates Enjolras’ kitchen, pulls groceries that Enjolras doesn’t remember buying from the fridge.

Now that Enjolras thinks about it, the tug he feels whenever Grantaire looks at him is not an unfamiliar one.

//

Summer before junior year, Enjolras got an internship in Grantaire’s hometown.

He, of course, didn’t know this until he was exiting his hotel for another day of apartment-searching in the first week of being there and literally ran into the man.

They’d dusted themselves off, and exchanged pleasantries, and said goodbye, and then realized they were walking in the same direction and proceeded in awkward silence until Enjolras ducked into a coffee shop with a made-up excuse.

“You didn’t know?” Combeferre said, when Enjolras mentioned it on the phone that night. “He’s staying home for the summer and taking art classes at the university.”

It’s a large enough town that Enjolras doesn’t expect to see him again; thus, he was surprised to see Grantaire outside his hotel the next morning, with two cups of coffee and a small smile.

“Hi,” Grantaire had said, “Courfeyrac mentioned you were looking for a place to stay, and I have an extra room and a drinking habit to finance.”

Enjolras moved in the next day, motivated by Courfeyrac’s advice and the drain of the hotel on his savings account. Grantaire’s parents had left the house to him for the summer, spending their vacation in the south of France instead.

“Believe me,” Grantaire had said, upon explaining this, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The first week, they barely interacted; Enjolras told a curious Courfeyrac that it’s just because their schedules conflict, but didn’t mention that he would spend as much time out of the house as possible.

In his defense, Grantaire seemed to be doing the same.

One rainy Sunday morning, Enjolras found himself stuck inside and bored and wandered out into the living room. Grantaire was sitting on the couch, blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a bowl of popcorn in his lap, the television playing a movie. He looked up just as Enjolras was about to turn and walk back into his room and said, “Apollo,” and then, “Enjolras,” and then, “have you ever seen Mars Attack?”

An hour later, Enjolras found himself laughing hysterically. “This is,” he gasped out, “the worst movie I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey now,” Grantaire said, “it’s a classic.”

By the time they finished the movie, Enjolras had gone hoarse with laughter, and Grantaire was doubled over, complaining that his abs hurt. Enjolras wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and looked over at Grantaire, and realized the man was staring at him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire responded, “I just don’t think we’ve ever spent this much time together without biting each other’s heads off. It’s kind of nice.”

Enjolras agreed, felt the awkward tension from the week before settle over them once again.

After the stale ending of the last one, Enjolras hadn’t been expecting to repeat their impromptu movie night. Which is why he was completely caught unaware when he’d answered the knock at his bedroom door the following Sunday to Grantaire, smiling carefully and brandishing an array of DVDs. So surprised, in fact, that he found himself saying yes.

And then again the week after.

And then again the following Wednesday, when Grantaire invited him to an open-air concert at the local park.

And then again when Grantaire suggested they get lunch together on Thursday, which turned into lunch on Friday, which turned into a daily routine.

“It’s weird,” he told Courfeyrac over Skype, “I’ve never spent time with him without one of you there, but it’s actually. Nice. We haven’t argued at all.” Discounting a brief tiff over the validity of mayonnaise as a condiment.

Courfeyrac just smiled.

//

Grantaire puts a knife and a tomato in Enjolras’ hand and a chopping board on his knees.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow and then gives the tomato and knife back.

“Don’t you want to learn how to cook?” Grantaire asks.

“I’d rather keep all 10 of my fingers,” Enjolras responds.

Grantaire takes the items back, laughing, and the sound hits Enjolras right below his sternum.

//

The summer ended with Grantaire’s head in Enjolras’ lap as he pointed at the sky above them, drawing constellations with his finger. They’d grown easier with words halfway through June, when they’d been fighting over movie choices and Enjolras had said _well, your face is a stupid dramedy_ , and shocked them both into laughter. They’d grown easier with touch by the end of July, when they’d gotten tipsy at a local bar and stumbled home, arms around each other’s waists and smiles on their face. And then, it was nearing September and they were sitting in Grantaire’s backyard on the last night before Enjolras flew back.

Grantaire was halfway through pointing out Lyra when Enjolras asked, “is this okay for you?”

Grantaire froze, arm stuck pointing at the heavens.

“Is what okay,” he’d asked, slowly and carefully and too much like a fuse about to blow.

Enjolras lifted a hand into Grantaire’s curls and waited.

“It’s easier, now, more manageable,” Grantaire had said finally, because of course he understood. He brought his arm down. “And sometimes, it’s harder,” because of course he’s contrary. “But I wouldn’t give it up,” because of course he’s impossible.

Enjolras wrapped a curl around his index finger and smiled.

“Me either.”

//

“Almost ready,” Grantaire says. It’s been eight minutes since Enjolras realized he wants more, and his blood feels like water in a pot, just about to roll into a boil.

It’s not a surprise that this is happening, Enjolras thinks, as Grantaire flips the sandwiches in the pan. He thinks that somewhere along the line, he’d started to realize it might happen, but he’d always imagined it would start they way they'd started; angry and explosive and unhealthy, beginning with a heated argument and ending with a slamming of doors.

He hadn't imagined a lazy Sunday with grilled cheese sandwiches and easy smiles.

It shouldn’t be a surprise; they’re nothing if not unpredictable.

//

When Grantaire flew back three days after Enjolras, Enjolras invited him over for lunch.

And then again the next day.

And then again the next.

And one Sunday, three weeks later and 10 minutes ago, Enjolras was sitting on the couch reading the paper, and Grantaire offered to make grilled cheese sandwiches, and Enjolras fell in love.

//

Grantaire turns off the stove and plates the sandwiches and then walks over to where Enjolras is sitting on the counter.

“This is quite possibly the most beautiful masterpiece created since the Belvedere,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras smiles and then leans forward and then kisses him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://anjalras.tumblr.com)!
> 
> also, the [writing sideblog this was meant for.](http://anjatori.tumblr.com)


End file.
